CHAPTER 5 Cassie Fields
Don’t Mention Your Ex
Oh my God, Cassie. Get it together.
Don’t mention your ex. Don’t mention your ex. Don’t mention your ex.
I school my thoughts to remember this, but I swear Alex talked about the Nash brothers all the time . He was a huge football fanatic, and he particularly loved one of the Nash brothers. I can’t remember which one, to be honest.
He loved football, and that sort of gave me an aversion to it. I know next to nothing about the game, but right now, I’m sort of wishing I’d paid a little more attention.
Meeting a Nash brother would be some incredible revenge on my asshole ex. I thought it on the trip here, but I never thought it would actually happen.
And now, as this man gazes into my eyes for a split second that feels like an eternity, I can’t help but think that hooking up with one of them would be even more epic. I’d be winning this divorce.
I know it’s finalized, and nobody really wins. But there’s still someone who wins in a divorce after the fact. He’s been fucking his assistant for a long time, but there will still be a time when one of us will go public with a new relationship first. One of us will have a better glow up. One of us will have a hotter partner than the one we left behind. One of us will upgrade first.
Can you imagine if it was me ? With him ? The guy next to me who’s probably a decade younger than me and freaking gorgeous and who plays pro football?
That’s the margaritas talking. I’m well aware of that. The chances of actually hooking up with this guy—Grayson? Was that what the bartender called him?—are slim to none, but I’m currently fueled by margarita confidence.
It’s Vegas. What happens here stays here and all that jazz. It’s the entire reason why I came here—to celebrate with new experiences.
My friends are on the dance floor. I excused myself to get another margarita, but then Grayson stepped in beside me, and maybe the rest is history. I’m pretty sure he plays for some Vegas team, but to be honest, I’m not entirely sure Vegas has a football team.
Yeah…I was that intent on avoiding anything my ex was interested in. Our problems started long before I discovered that he was cheating. He turned his nose up at anything related to gymnastics, so I turned my nose up at anything related to football.
“Yes, I am,” he says, affirming my question from a moment ago when I asked if he’s a football player.
I wrinkle my nose, and he chuckles.
“Are you not a fan?”
Don’t mention your ex. Don’t mention your ex. Don’t mention your ex.
“It’s just that my ex was a huge football fan, so I tended to avoid it.” Goddammit. I mentioned my ex. Fucking margaritas.
He chuckles. “Recent ex?”
I narrow my eyes a little as I wonder why he’s asking. “I’m here for the weekend celebrating the fact that my divorce is final, though we haven’t been together in well over two years.” I raise my eyebrows and enunciate been together to make it clear I mean in the physical sense.
Good Lord, Cassie.
Why are my lips flapping like this? I haven’t even told Jess that Alex and I stopped sleeping together two years ago, but I’m telling a virtual stranger these intimate details about my personal life.
The bartender drops Grayson’s tequila, and I’m still holding my empty glass with a bit of melted ice mixed with what was once a delicious concoction. He holds up his glass, and I hold mine up in response. “Congratulations,” he says.
I press my glass to his, and he tips the glass to his lips. I watch as he takes a sip. The liquid seems to swirl around his mouth a little as he tilts his head back, and his eyes close as he swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and never before in my entire existence have I found Adam’s apples sexy, but this guy? Damn . I could lick that apple all damn night.
He just looks like he smells good, like he tastes good. Like he fucks good.
I’m drunk.
And I want to have sex.
Two years is two years too long—not with the wrong person, I guess, but I’m suddenly totally ready for a wild weekend, and I’m not about to leave without getting exactly what I came for.
And this particular Nash looks like he can give me a really, really good time.
I’m a little out of practice. A little rusty. A sober Cassie would be absolutely shocked that a pro football player is even looking in my direction. But the why doesn’t matter. The fact is that I’m interested, and I’m just drunk enough to believe this is a great idea.
“Thank you,” I say stupidly after he opens his eyes .
“Are you here by yourself?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m here with three of my best friends.”
“Where are they?”
I nod toward the dance floor.
“Do you want to get back to them? Or would you be interested in going somewhere a little quieter?” he asks.
My eyes are wide as they meet his.
He wants to go somewhere quieter? Is that code for sex? Because yes, please .
I’m finally in my era to sow some wild oats, and this attractive man standing beside me is the very definition of a wild oat. I know this won’t go beyond this one night. The chances of me running into a pro football player ever again in my life are nil, so let the games begin.
“What would we do somewhere quieter?” I ask, not sure if it comes off as flirting or naivety.
He chuckles and takes another sip of his tequila, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s almost… flustered by my question. He clears his throat. “Talk. Get to know each other. See where the tequila takes us.”
I laugh, and then I nod. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like to see where tequila takes us.”
He grins at me, and I swear, I melt a little just at that smile. I wonder how often he does this. Does he lean toward older women? Does he pick up a different woman every night? Because just that smile is enough to make me want to drop my panties for him.
You know…if I was wearing any.
This dress is tight as hell, and I didn’t want any lines.
I worked my ass off to get fit over the last year. The day I filed for divorce, I also joined a gym. I wanted to get into the best shape of my life. I knew eventually I’d be getting back into the field of dating, and I wanted to go into that field looking my absolute best.
Two kids destroyed my body, but I’m slowly getting it back. And this football player hitting on me is the exact boost to my confidence that I’ve needed for a long time now.
The bartender pushes my margarita over and a receipt over toward me. I move to pick it up, knowing full well that it’s going to be over twenty-two bucks for one drink, but the football player grabs it before I can. “She’s with me,” he says, and the bartender nods as he hands my bill back over the counter.
“Of course, Mr. Nash.” He grabs some cash from his wallet, and he hands it over to the bartender.
It’s a hundred-dollar bill.
He just tipped a hundred bucks on two free drinks, and honestly, I’m swooning. He’s generous, he’s gorgeous, and as he drapes his arm around my shoulder and starts to steer me through the club, he’s definitely interested.
He drops his arm from around me and grabs my hand as we head toward the VIP area, and oh my God, am I going to meet more football players? I don’t even get the chance to let my friends know I’m escaping with a football player.
He keeps his head ducked down, presumably to avoid being recognized. The music pumps loudly through the speakers—too loud for conversation as we walk.
Someone with a lot of similar features to him slaps him on the shoulder. I assume it’s one of the other Nash brothers.
He’s wearing a hat, too, and he says something close to Grayson’s ear. They do one of those things men do where they sort of slap hands and turn it into a handshake that leads into a quick hug, and I can tell Grayson is close with his brothers.
He keeps walking through the room until we end up at a corner table, and he’s right—it’s quieter in here. The table doesn’t have a speaker set right above it like there was out by the bar, and since this is the VIP area, we can sit with our drinks and have a private conversation.
Though my drink is nearing empty already. I should slow down.
Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe it’s better this way.
I guess I’ll just go with it and see where the night takes us.